picking sides
by Salmon Cat
Summary: "Funerals remind me why I hate the color black." Puckentine angst from Cat's POV.
1. black and white

**Summary: **"Funerals remind me why I don't like the color black." Puckentine angst.

**Genres: **Angst, hurt/comfort, friendship, romance.

**Type: **Oneshot, first person.

**Warnings: **Death, loss, and depression referred to and mentioned.

**Author's Note: **_Sorry for the generous amount of angst I've been contributing to the fandom. I'll write brighter and happier stuff when I'm done mourning the show's cancellation. Again, sorry. But... enjoy?_

. . .

It's so bright. So white. So clean it makes me sick, kind of.

Where am I?

I try to walk, but I don't know which direction I'm going to. It's all too white. Too empty.

There's nothing to see, nothing to show me where I'm heading or where I even am.

Nothing but a blurred figure in the distance. Familiar, but somewhat ghostly. Maybe it's all that whiteness surrounding it. Surrounding me, too.

Nothing feels real.

_Come over here, Cat._

The figure calls for me. Or at least I think it's the figure that's talking. Otherwise that's just creepy.

_Cat, come quick. It's so much brighter on this side!_

Come where, I ask.

_To this side. It's better here._

But that's too far away, I say. What if I can't go back?

_Why would you want to go back?_

Don't you want to, I ask. Aren't you scared of what's on that side?

The figure beckons at me again.

_There's nothing for me on your side._

What about me, I ask.

_That's what I'm saying, you come too! You're the only thing worth staying for, but look at this. Look at how much better everything is, on this side._

I start to take a few steps towards the figure, and for a while it begins to magnify in my view and look less blurried, the distance between us decreasing.

And then I remember something, and my feet stop.

Wait, I say. What about Nonna? And my friends? I can't just leave them. They'll have to come too.

The figure's head droops, its posture slouching, the way people's do when they're disappointed. I see that a lot, so I should know by now.

_That's not how it works, Cat._

Well, I can't just leave them without saying goodbye, I say. I try not to sound like I'm picking them over the figure, but some things just sound the way they do.

_Fine, then. I'll go myself._

The figure turns on its heels and retreats into the endless whiteness behind it, getting blurrier and blurrier.

I try to run after it but I don't know if I'm really running.

And then I remember. And I know who that figure is, and I realize what the other side means, and suddenly the whiteness seems to dissolve.

Wait, I shout. Sam, wait for me! Don't go to that side!

I'm running so hard, I don't think I've ever run so fast and so hard in my life.

I stretch my arm in front of me like I'm Harry Potter and she's the golden snitch, and for a second it looks like I might get her...

Sam, wait, I yell. I'm here! I'm still here!

My hand gropes wildly in front of me and I feel something and nothing at the tips of my fingers at the same time.

Please stay, I beg.

/ /

Funerals remind me why I don't like the color black. Or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe I don't like funerals because of all that black.

So much black.

The whole time I'm there I try to keep my eyes shut because at least then I won't see so much black. Black everywhere. Even the insides of my eyelids have hints of pink on them instead of total blackness.

When everyone begins to leave and they're all telling me they're sorry, all I can do is nod and remind myself how to breathe without crying.

Finally, it's just me and the blonde next to me, and we're both looking down at the tombstone trying to look for the right things to say.

"They told me it was quick," the blonde mutters, the look on her face uncharacteristically solemn.

I know, I say.

"So she didn't go through too much pain," she continues. "Some people have it harder. They struggle before they realize they're not ready to leave."

She looks over at me, and for a moment I wonder if she knew what I saw while I was unconscious in the hospital.

"That's what they say, anyway," she mumbles, looking away now.

I guess she was always ready, I say.

At this, Melanie Puckett puts her hand on my shoulder and looks me so straight in the eyes it's already getting hard not too cry again.

"You made my sister real happy, Cat," she says. "That's why she didn't mind going. She knew she made enough memories with you. With iCarly and everything, yeah, but you too. She cared a lot about you, you know."

How'd you know, I ask. My voice is shaky already. If she cared about me, she would've stayed, right?

"Because," she shrugs and turns to look at the grave. "You're here. And not down there with her."

And my heart gives me that lurching feeling for a split second because I remember the screeching of brakes and crunching of metal, and Sam's desperate yell and the way her strong body cushioned my fall, fitting snug between my more fragile self and the hard ground.

I remember it all, and that's why it hurts all the more.

She was always the strong one, I whisper. Anyone would have thought she'd be the one to survive a crash like that. Not me.

Why me?

She was gone before I even woke up in the hospital. I never had the chance to tell her how glad I was that we were friends. And to thank her for protecting me, like always.

"I think you're strong too, in your own way," Melanie smiles at me, a smile so genuine it makes me sad. "You'll get through this. We all will. You have good people in your life - Sam had only you here."

Before she leaves, she wraps her arms awkwardly around me and the whole thing just reminds me that I'll never again be able to hug the other Puckett twin, the one who's not a hugger.

I start to cry again when I see her retreating into her car in the distance because seeing Melanie in black really reminds me of Sam and her leather jacket. And it breaks my heart because seeing Melanie should make me feel like I'm seeing Sam again, except it's the other way around.

They're too different from each other - worlds apart - that being in the presence of one only reminds me of the other's absence.

/ /

Sam Puckett saved my life when she met me.

Sam Puckett saved my life when she left me.

Forever.

I can't breathe again.

/ /

I come home and wherever I go, wherever I try to hide from the looming sadness over me, all I see and hear and smell and touch just reminds me of Sam's absence.

At night, I sneak into her bed and pull her blankets over me like I used to. And I imagine her putting a single arm around me. And I try to put on a smile like I used to.

I don't leave Sam's bed until Jade and the others break down the apartment's door and come looking for me.

They all hug me and cry with me - even Jade! - but it doesn't help so much because my heart just keeps repeating_ not Sam, not Sam, not Sam._

When the kids come, they ask me where Sam is and all I can do is smile and tell them she's gone away for a while. I can't bring myself to say gone _forever_. Not out loud. I'm scared that if I do, she'll really be gone. Forever.

I'm not ready for that.

I guess there are things you will never be ready for.

Sometimes I like to think of what would happen if I'd come with her to the other side. The thought's particularly strong when I'm alone and there's no one around me to remind me that I have friends and family waiting and rooting for me.

If what Melanie said is true, that Sam felt satisfied with the things we've been through together, then could I have felt the same way about all the adventures I had with my friends and family? And then with Sam too?

Should I have gone with her, to the other side?

/ /

I have only two dreams when I do get to sleep now: the dream where I see Sam in all that whiteness, waving at me and telling me to come with her; and the dream where I live through the crash, again and again and again.

Some nights I feel glad because that way I get to see Sam and hear her voice again. But other nights - most nights - I wake up gasping for breath and choking in between tears because I realize I'm in Sam's bed again and she's not there and she's not rubbing my back and telling me I'm going to be fine.

Most nights, I end up on Sam's bed even when I don't want to.

/ /

Sam, you're allowed to haunt me, you know.

I'd appreciate you not popping in the bathroom, but everywhere else is fine.

You're allowed to scare me and play pranks on me once in a while, you know. Move the furniture around and turn the lights on and off. I'm sure the kids won't mind. They miss you too.

I miss you the most, though.

I hope you know that.

You know, we never got to buy a house in Oxnard. We also haven't gone to Mystic Mountain together. And remember that time we almost went to the Bahamas? And there's this thing we have in school every year called the Kick Back. I was going to ask you to come with me this year.

There's a lot we didn't get to do together.

I know you said the other side is a lot better, but if you're watching or listening by any chance, will you come by tonight?

They tried to get rid of your bed today, but I told them you wouldn't like them touching your stuff without permission.

PS, your motorcycle just got back from repairs today. I'm going to wash it everyday in case you want to check on it once in a while. I don't think I'll drive it, though. Unless you want me to come to your side. I don't think I'd mind.

Do you want me to?

. . .

**Note:** _By "the kids" I mean the kids they babysit. Thought it was kind of vague. I don't know._


	2. ( bonus chapter )

. . .

( _bonus chapter _)

the eulogy

. . .

When they told me she was gone, it took me a while to realize where, and then a tad bit longer to realize why.

When they told me to write a eulogy, it took me a whole day reading other people's to see if I could write one good enough for Sam.

Because she deserves it.

Sam deserves so much, and I don't know if her short time spent with me was enough to be considered "so much".

Sam hated most people, except for a very rare few. I am one of the fortunate people to be loved and cared for so selflessly by someone like her, and the fact that I'm standing here today is proof of that.

In the past year or so that I've gotten to know her, I realized that she hated only those who didn't love her. Anyone who knew her enough to see past her tough outer skin, she treated with extra care and sweetness. Everyone else, she decided, was just not worth her time.

Sam was practical and efficient that way.

Someone like Sam deserves to know when someone loves her. Sam was a difficult person to read, but that can probably explain why she finds it so hard to read others. If you weren't being straightforward about it, she wouldn't know.

Sam was naive and child-like that way.

Looking back, maybe that was what made us click so fast.

To others, Sam was a rebel. A tough and stubborn girl with strength enough to take you down in one hit. But my version of Sam was different.

My Sam would do all the wrong things for all the right reasons.

She would do something illegal just to cheer a friend up: like stealing a whole furniture set, for example.

She would do something reckless just to keep a friend out of danger: like jumping into the back of a speeding truck. Or taking the fall in a motorcycle accident.

To others, those things may sound dangerous and bad, but there were deeper and sweeter things involved in those actions that more than make up for them. At least, I feel that way.

Sam was a lot of things to me, but she was a good friend before anything else.

If I'm not making sense to you right now, it's because it's a difficult thing to do, to explain someone like Sam. A friendship with Sam is just one of those things you have to experience yourself instead of just hear about. Like an inside joke.

I'm really, really glad that Sam and I could be friends. And I'm not exaggerating when I say that I wouldn't even be here today if it weren't for her.

Sam made all the cliches make sense.

And it hurts. It hurts so much because I'm going through all this, without her. We've been through so much together, but this is the hardest obstacle, and she's not here with me to tell me I can do it and that we'll be just fine.

I don't know if I will ever be just fine after her.

I have a lot of caring friends in my life whom I love very much. But no one else could do for me what Sam was brave and reckless and tough and sweet enough to do.

And if you're standing there looking at me crying over her, and you're thinking of saying you're sorry, please don't. Because Sam wouldn't have apologized for saving my life.

If anyone should apologize, it's me. Because I'm weak and little and fragile, and Sam knows it, and I know it. And that is why she's always protecting and looking out for me. Good friendships don't get any better than that.

But you wouldn't know, because you never got to know Sam the way I did.

And maybe that's the only thing you should be sorry about.

/ /

If you want to know, I didn't end up reading out the whole eulogy.

I couldn't.

The moment I got to the point where I had to say her name out loud, I couldn't do it. It just got stuck.

Someone had to usher me off the podium thing after they realized I couldn't go on and could only sob. It seems that's the one thing I can do properly these days. Cry and cry and cry.

I feel sorry for my friends who'd helped me write it, of course, but it just didn't feel fair to me that all of these people would get to hear my feelings for her, and not Sam herself.

And that made me think of how I'll never be able to tell her all that. How she would never know how I feel.

And yet she took the fall for me.

Sam was not a hugger, that much she made clear.

But the few times that she did hug me first were all memorable.

And the last time was the most unforgettable.

Sam hurt a lot of people in her life, but she always made sure not to hurt me. If anything, she was always keen on preventing me getting hurt.

I love her, and I believe that she loves me too, in her own way.

But unlike hers, my love wasn't enough to save her life.

And maybe that's why this is such a sad story.

I just hope, before she went fully onto that other side, I just hope she knew I love her. I just hope she went away knowing that I love her, because I don't think she got that enough when she was still here.

I hope that she finally read in between the lines, that in the spaces between the letters whenever I say something like, "I'm so glad we're friends!" there was always a dash of "I love you".

Because I do really love Sam Puckett. I love her a lot. I miss her a lot. And I just hope she believed in me enough to know all of these things.

. . .

**Note: **_I'm sorry. I had to. Thanks to your reviews, I was inspired to quickly attach this brief follow-up to the oneshot. It's not my favorite thing to write, but I thought Sam Puckett deserved an okay enough eulogy._


End file.
